


Me and My Husband

by banrionsi



Series: GGRBTWWSF universe [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Face-Sitting, Hate Sex, Oral Sex, PIV, Smut, Title from a Mitski Song, Vaginal Penetration, being mean to the housekeeper, but that's what she gets for tryna fuck the lord of the manor, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banrionsi/pseuds/banrionsi
Summary: You entered an arranged marriage with Jango of Fett Manor years ago, and you are Lady and Lord respectively. Your only shared interest is your son, Boba.Jango comes home from work for a longer period of time than usual and you find it suspicious. Meanwhile, the housekeeper continues to hold affections for your husband and try her luck. You and Jango may hate each other most of the time, but he's still your goddamn husband and frankly the housekeeper best stay in her lane.Alternatively, I had a fever dream where Jango and I were married and hated each other and the housekeeper tried to make moves on him while I was in his bedroom discussing the finances with him, so I pulled a power move and dropped my robe while looking her in the eye and laid on the bed next to Jango until she left.Dominance: asserted. Tits: out. The housekeeper has escorted herself from the premises.Oh, and then you and Jango fuck.A "Get right back from where we started from" au. The story I had originally wanted to tell!
Relationships: Jango Fett/Reader
Series: GGRBTWWSF universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100105
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Me and My Husband

**Author's Note:**

> "We are the Arnolfinis.Do not think you may invade Our privacy because you may not./The most relaxing word in our vocabulary is "we"."
> 
> \- The Arnolfini Marriage, Paul Durcan.

He’s hiding something from you.

You know he is, can feel it in your bones. He hasn’t stayed home for this long in years.

Yesterday his comm rang during dinner and he didn’t answer it, just granted it the briefest of glances before dismissing the call. Perhaps that would seem an innocuous action to most but you know what those beeps signalled. Count Dooku specifically only ever lets the comm ring three times. No more, no less.

Boba’s ecstatic of course. Delighted his fathers home to wrestle with him and drag him outside, to forage amongst the wet moss and thick trunks of the vast thicket enclosing Fett Manor. You watch them both now, staring out the window above the kitchen sink, sipping from a mug of golden milk Agatha had less than graciously prepared for you.

Jango is crouched on the flagstones out front, beckoning a determined Boba forth with a sly curve on the corner of his lips. They both dance around each other, Boba splashing through puddles and spattering mud over his trousers whilst Jango moves with a predatory grace, steps measured and light on the balls of his feet.

You don’t know why they are training outside in the wet and muck when he has a perfectly well equipped home gym in the East wing of the ground floor. The residual slick from this mornings showers worry you, and fill your head with terrible visions of Boba losing his balance and smacking the crown of his head on the unforgiving rocks. You don’t bother asking Jango, can picture all too well the sardonic response about “always being prepared” and “not being able to take down every bounty in a cushy training room”. _Oh foolish wife, what could you ever know about the ways of men._

Scoffing, you turn from the duel and glide out of the kitchen and up the stairs to your private chamber in the west wing. Making your tread as muffled as possible, only the slightest whisper on the wind, is an unconscious action at this point. Learned behaviour of years trying to ignore Jango and trying to feel like you don’t take up too much space. The latter isn’t exactly his fault but his lithe and quiet physicality despite all his brawn often makes you feel as if you are too bulky, too loud, in comparison. Standing next to him in all his sleek, disciplined, and aloof nature makes you feel like some fumbling giant, painfully obtrusive onto your surroundings. Yet another reason to distance yourself from your husband.

Retiring into your lounge chair, warmed by the glow of long flickering flames, you take another sip of the spiced milk from your mug. One good thing about your husband, to keep it balanced: the man isn’t afraid of flavour, and your cupboards are well stocked with spices from both your homeworld and Jangos. However, thinking of your homeworld, no matter how fast the sentiment passes from your mind, spears a familiar ache between your ribs. How long has it been now? A decade? You aren’t sure. Time means little in your life now, measured only by Boba’s height year after year and the crows feet slowly etching into the skin around Jangos eyes. Rather regrettably, age looks good on Jango - although you are loathe to admit it.

But again, why is he home? Yes Boba is on a break from school, home to celebrate the end of the local harvest season but Jango was here a week before Boba even stepped out the Institutes front doors. It’s strange behaviour. A peculiarity. An err from the status quo, the unspoken agreement to spend as little time possible in each other’s orbit. You don’t like it. The change in routine. Leaves you antsy, skittish. Three weeks is it? Far too long indeed. He likes to be out on the prowl, in his bachelor pad _slash_ ship. Probably goes around picking up girls in the shitty cantinas he gets his information from, flashing his shiny beskar alloy at them to make their lashes flutter you imagine. You cluck under your breath and tap your fingers sharply. You don’t have the same luxury of options out here, in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.

Not that he’d even have to travel far if he wished for a woman to warm his bed. Agatha, the stone faced housemaid, has a positively juvenile infatuation with your husband. Thinking about it both amuses and infuriates you. It’s not that you’re jealous, god forbid, you and Jango have only slept together once – on your wedding night to conceive Boba. Luckily, the pregnancy took root first attempt and you haven’t had to touch him since. So no you aren’t jealous, that’s not the word. Possessiveness fits better, you hum. He may lay with whoever he wants outside the Manor walls but _inside_ , he is Lord of this house and you are Lady. Agatha holds no position worthy of allowing her to long for your husband.

Downstairs, the entrance doors swing open with a bang - no doubt Bobas enthusiastic doing. Jangos deep rumble reaches you even from so far away, the vibration of it buzzing through the wood until it reaches your ears. And then all is quiet once more. Perhaps they retired to the drawing room? The sunroom maybe, to listen to the rain tapping on the windowpanes.

Letting out a long suffering sigh, you shift in your chair to reach over and grab a book from your stand. Something to pass the time until dinner is served. Agatha has help this evening, her nephew coming from the city to stay with her and learn her trade. A nice young man, very polite, Jango had told you. Anyway, it’s about time he hired more staff to help around the manor. Imagine, a Lady having to cook her own food! Clean the house! And you are no madam with notions, you enjoy cooking and lending a hand but – Jango had promised your father that you would live comfortably, in _luxury_ even. You had been spun a tale of a life where you wouldn’t have to lift a finger in exchange for essentially trading your life, freedom, and aspirations away.

Perhaps that is why he is home. Funds. The finances. Hiring Agatha’s nephew, the man will be paid a very good wage. So that must mean Jango is still being earning handsomely and well, the savings aren’t exactly being eaten up. And yet if he has so much money then why do you only have Aggie to help around the house (nephew aside)? Where is the groundskeeper? Where is the cook, housekeeper for _solely_ just that, and general serviceman? Where is the errand boy?

Perhaps it is to make you suffer. To keep those angry embers of rage burning in your tummy. Another dig at you, another way to demonstrate who has the power here, show just who gets to dip into the bank account. Aggressively turning the page with a flick of your thumb, you let out a huff of irritation through your nose. It is a perverse pleasure he takes, from making you feel less than.

Dinner is pleasantly delicious. Hearty soup with fresh baked bread. When you thank the young man, who apparently moonlights as a cook, he cannot meet your eye. His fingers twitch at his sides, but his mouth curls up at the corners all the same. Jango does not thank him, only serves him an on-brand cool glare. Sipping from your glass of wine with narrowed eyes, you wonder why he is seemingly incapable of being genuinely kind to anyone other than Boba. The man is truly a mystery.

Boba is glad to have both of his parents home. When all three of you retire to the sunroom to watch the sunset, he leads you two by hand to the biggest chaise and sits down in-between you. His hand, though still tiny held in yours, is positively dwarfed by Jangos massive paw. All of you fall silent to watch brilliant vermilion and midnight blue bleed across the sky peeking above the treeline, only to be quickly replaced by a blanket of blinking stars. Bobas breath begins to even out, and soon he settles his head gently on your shoulders. His eyes slip closed, tousled hair brushing the apple of his cheek. He looks so sweet that you almost want to cry. He will never be this young again.

When you lift your gaze reluctantly from the serene image, it falls on Jango. His face mirrors yours, usually sharp eyes now softened as he watches your little boy sleep. It isn’t often you see Jango unguarded, and you hesitate to breathe lest you disturb the idyllic moment.

It is broken anyway, by a crash in the kitchen rapidly followed by Aggies hushed giving out. No doubt the new hire has dropped some kind of china on the tile. You should probably go comfort him, assure him that these things happen and he shouldn’t fear any kind of punishment of wage docking god forbid. But, you don’t want to disturb Boba. 

It is then that Jango shifts his gaze from the gently snoring boy to you. “Ill deal with it”, he murmurs and then he is rising from his seat and out the door. You don’t miss the last tender glance he casts at Boba.

He returns before long, scoops Boba into his arms. There is a tense moment where his brow creases and his eyelids begin to flutter but then Jango presses a kiss to his dark curls and whispers for him to back to sleep and he is back out like a light.

Jango takes him upstairs. You wait ten minutes before retreating to your own room to spare you both the awkwardness of more time alone together.

And then, you leave.

You want answers. Why is he only hiring help now?

He never stays this long.

Boba safely in bed and out of the way, you stride down to the East Wing in just your nightgown and bare feet. Agatha and her nephew should be gone home by now. No one to interrupt your conversation with Jango.

You never go the East wing. It is an unspoken rule; The East wing is Jangos, the West Wing yours. Boba sleeps in the West wing with you but in the room closest to the staircase – middle ground. It feels strange to set your feet on the soft runner lining the hardwood. New territory. His territory.

You pause outside his bedroom for only the slightest half a second before powering through with your mission and pushing open the door. You would knock but frankly you don’t want to give him warning in case he pretends to be asleep or some other ruse.

Ah. Perhaps you should have knocked.

His torso is bare, distractingly so. Glistening with beads of water, and a plush towel wrapped around his waist. A droplet travels from his hair and down his neck to pool in the dip of his collarbone. He swallows and you watch the motion of his Adam apple with rapt attention, before drinking in the curves of his pecs and following their lines to the sharp v of his hips.

And then he clears his throat.

You snap your eyes back up to hold his, and bunch your fists into the silky material at your thighs. He is amused, obviously so, and your ears and cheeks burn something awful in humiliation. How could your ogling be interpreted as anything else? You can only imagine how gormless you look gawking at him, and you try to preserve the last of your dignity by schooling your face back into something neutral and rolling your shoulders back.

“Any reason in particular you decided to storm in here without warning?”

God you want to wipe that smug expression off his face so bad. Bastard. Cocking out a hip, you cross your arms over your chest and raise an eyebrow.

“Why are you home?”

He squints at you and then sits on the bed to his side. (Steel frame, you note. Utilitarian. _Typical_.) He sets his forearms on his knee as he begins to speak, and the way the position emphasises the swell of his biceps makes your mouth dry.

“What kind of a question is that? This is my house. Boba is home for the holidays. I’m not in indentured servitude you know, I can take breaks from working whenever I want”.

His lips (full, wet from the bath he must have had), curl into a mocking smile. “I didn’t come home to see _you_ , if that’s what you’re wondering.”

You click your tongue and shift your hands to your hips. “Hah. Hilarious”.

The movement causes the sheer material of your dress to stretch across your chest and catches Jangos eyes. Instantly you regret not wearing something a little more conservative but, you don’t want to look affected or nervous, so you keep your stance.

The wind has picked up again, the howl permeating the room even through the thick curtains.

He is perfectly still, perfectly calm. Looking every bit as handsome as the Vitruvian man with beads of water still clinging to his dark lashes. He doesn’t seem flustered, not even a little, by your intrusion. If anything he seems to be finding it entertaining.

Tilting your chin up, you ask him your second question. This time your tone is remarkably less aggressive, quieter.

“Why did you only hire extra help this week? Why not before?”

And then Jango softens. Moving up to the head of his bed to recline on the plush cushions, he shifts around getting comfortable while he answers you.

“I didn’t realise how much maintenance this household needed. I didn’t run Fett Manor before we were married, only afterwards.”

You gravitate towards him as he continues to speak, drawn by what seems to be the only amicable and true conversation you have had in what has been a very long time.

He purses his lips while he speaks, avoiding your gaze as he lights more candles on his bedside table. The warm glow flickers across his face in delight, and sends charcoaled shadows down the bridge of his nose and in the dip above his lip.

“I haven’t been home for a stretch like this in a very long time. I thought Aggie would be enough on her own but, the gardens are a mess. It is too much of a burden for one worker. I know you have been helping out too.”

And then, in the strangest turn of events, Jango... actually looks ashamed. He turns his gaze downwards briefly before lifting it back up to hold yours from underneath his lashes.

“I have neglected my duties as Lord of this Manor. For this, I am sorry.”

Letting your arms drift back to your sides, you take another step towards him, until the cool sheets of his bed press against your shins.

“Thank you.”

And then you just watch each other in silence. For once he is not mocking or aloof, but looking at you open and honest. Genuine.

He dips his tongue out the slightest amount, just to wet his bottom lip. Blinks at you slowly, with his stupidly pretty dark eyes and stupidly handsome face. It is unfair really, that he should look so good. He has no right to sit there looking so broad when he is such a pain in the ass. And God, most of the time you hate him. You really do. This is no marriage of love, nor even lust.

 _Goddamnit_ , you want him.

And then he is shifting on the bed, spreading his legs just the smallest amount and sitting upright. Forearms resting on the pillows next to him so that his collarbones are unfairly sharp. The candlelight would almost make him look romantic if you didn’t know better.

He cocks his head at you.

You accept it as the invitation it is and gaze back at him through heavy lids. Slowly, you trail your hands to the hem of your nightdress, coax the silky fabric upwards with your fingers until the end of it is curled inside your grip. Exhaling shakily through your mouth, you tighten you grip and begin to lift the hem-

_Fucking Agatha._

You and Jango stare at her, mute in your shock at her brazenness. Not a single knock preceding her presence before she is standing in the doorway of Jangos bedroom. She holds a tray in her pallid papery hands, two glasses of amber liquid perched on top, and her mouth flaps uselessly while she casts her gaze rapidly back and forth between the two of you. You and your husband. Jango, near bare lying in his bed. You, in a flimsy chemise that does nothing to hide your pebbled nipples pressing against the fabric.

The pitiful creature that she is, she says not a word. Too busy burning the golden expanse of his chest into her memory you imagine. But he is not hers to look at, or share hot toddy’s with, no matter how much she wishes.

When she shifts her gaze to you, you hold it with a sneer and then lift your slip up and over your head in one swift movement.

Dropping it at your feet, you climb onto the bed and stretch your body along the length of Jangos. You smooth your hand over his stomach, run your fingers through the hair over his sternum before letting it rest there over his heart. Your other arm serves to prop you up, allow you the height to press your forehead to his temple and press a kiss to his cheek. He keeps his eyes on Agatha the same as you. This is my husband. This is my wife. Who are you, who eats alone, sleeps alone, to question us?

Finally you speak, deceptively soft and sweet. “Time to go home Aggie.”

The door closes behind her gently as anything and you both listen to the subtle rattle of the tray as she makes her way downstairs. You wonder how you missed it earlier.

Her departure is announced by the entrance doors slamming shut and then Jango moves so that you can see him furrow his brows. “She should be more careful. Boba’s a light sleeper.” The dryness of it makes you huff out a quiet laugh, and he grins with you.

Tracing the line of your cheek with calloused fingers, he presses his forehead against yours and when he speaks his breath ghosts over your lips. “Her nephew nearly came in his pants when you thanked him for dinner you know”. His comment is so unexpected that your eyes widen before letting loose an undignified snort.

Dragging your hand up his chest to curl around his jaw, you nuzzle your nose against his and murmur softly, “Enough of Agatha and her nephew “, and then you slant your mouth against his. He groans and presses back eagerly, twisting one hand up to cradle the back of your head and wrapping this other around your waist. He smells like cotton and rosemary from his bath, and you wonder what he tastes like.

You swipe your tongue across his lips and he opens his mouth to allow you in. To your pleasant surprise, he lets you lead the kiss and roll on top of him. You plant open mouthed kisses along the line of his throat and nip at his collarbones while you fumble with the towel around his waist, and he hisses sharply when you finally rid him of the damp cloth and wrap your hand around him.

He yanks your lips back up to meet his with a strong grip on the nape of your neck and bites at your lower lip, sucks it into his mouth so that it swells when he releases it. When he reaches his hand down to brush past your curls and pinch your clit between his thumb and index, you gasp out the most wanton moan you have ever made. _How embarrassing._ But then you don’t have time to stew for much longer because he is delving a thick finger into you and then a second, scissoring his fingers to stretch you open. He sucks bruises in the crook where your neck and shoulder meet, mindful not to venture too high lest they be too hard to hide from your son.

Turning his attention to your breasts, he nuzzles his face between them before tilting his head to catch your nipple in his mouth, run his tongue over it again and again until it is sensitive to the slightest touch. He does the same to your other breast until little whines leave you with every swipe of his tongue and curl of his fingers.

Pushing him back until he is pressed against the pillows, you take him in hand again and then shift to take him inside of you. You tease him first, rocking back and forth on his tip and sliding it over your clit until he growls at you, heavy brow knitted in frustration. Smirking at that, you finally sink down on him and lean backwards to brace your hands on the thick muscle of his thighs. Jango is not a small man and well, you have never had anyone else since taking your marriage vows, so the stretch is a lot but _good._ You prefer it to burn anyway. This isn’t making love.

His hands are like vices around your hips as you bounce on him, eyes so blown that they are pure midnight black. Soft grunts come from deep in his throat as you clench around him and you do appreciate that the air of degradation and cruel words don’t carry over to the bedroom. It appears that your husband has some standards after all.

When he comes, he almost looks shocked at himself. He cries out, a strangled sound, before locking you in place with his grip and bracing his feet on the bed below you. The feeling of his hot seed inside you is just as unfamiliar as it was the first and only ever other time he did it, but you certainly don’t find it unpleasant.

Leaning down to give him a kiss, you lift up and off his member with a hum and then slowly, you shuffle forward to frame his chest with your knees. Realising your intention, Jango adjusts the pillows until he can lay flat and then slides his hands to hold the back of your knees. He helps hold you steady until you set your hands tightly on the bar of his headboard and your thighs are on either side of his head. He rubs soothing circles on the side of your thighs as you take a deep breath and then slowly lower yourself until your core hovers over his mouth.

Once he is sure you are steady, he tugs you down the rest of the way to his mouth and licks into you hungrily. You squeeze your eyes shut in bliss while he sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks underneath your hood with the tip of his tongue. He moves to kiss your entrance and swipe the flat of his tongue over the length of you but although it is good, it isn’t getting you off quite like what he first did. You reach a hand down to twine into his hair and carefully tug his head until he understands what you want and licks at your clit _over_ and _over_ and _over_ \- until you finally reach that pinnacle and tip over it with a throaty whimper. He works you through it with little kitten licks before you sit back up off his face and move to flop down next to him.

Once you get a good look at his face you gasp and your cheeks burn. Jango looks positively _debauched_ , shiny from nose to chin with your slick. Smeared below his mouth is what you believe is his own come, and you suppress a moan at the realisation that it must’ve dripped out from inside you and onto him.

He just grins at you, panting as he gets his breath back. Tired, wrecked, but happy. Offering him a smile of your own you reach over to swipe your thumb over the mess on his chin and lift it to your own mouth to lick it clean.

Your unspoken truce will end come morning, but in the meantime you both curl around each other for sleep with a final kiss goodnight.


End file.
